


paint me up (you're my favorite color)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hair Dyeing, Make Daisy Happy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, not Lincoln-friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wanted a change," she tells him, touches her hair a little self-consciously. "I didn't want to cut it, this time, but..."</p><p>"You wanted a change," he repeats, his tone questioning, and she nods, lets the unspoken reason hang between them. Coulson clears his throat, gives her another quick sideways glance.</p><p>"I... I could help you with it. If you'd like."</p>
            </blockquote>





	paint me up (you're my favorite color)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts), [RowboatCop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/gifts).



When it happens, because of course it happens, she knows it's been coming, it's both more and less terrible than she expects.

He doesn't _leave_ , at least not in terms of walking out of the base, walking away from all this like she kind of expected he would for the longest time. He just- they're out on mission, the two of them, and it goes sideways, and Lincoln's temper gets out of control the way it almost has a thousand other times. Except this time, they're in a car and Lincoln grits his jaw and clenches his fist and crackles lightning and then, fuck, _fuck_ , the car battery explodes right out of the hood with a noise so unexpected and terrible that Daisy thinks, at first, they've somehow hit a bomb.

The car spins out of control and all she can do is brace for it, use her own powers to keep them clear of oncoming traffic and power poles and trees, and as they're skidding to a stop Daisy furiously remembers Lincoln saying "we crashed" like it wasn't his  _fucking fault every time_.

She's too angry to be scared, afterwards, gets out of the car and screams at him about his temper and his lack of control and how he almost got them both killed, _again_ , and in the end what happens is that he walks away and she lets him go like she should have months and months before now.

She takes a deep breath, gets back into the car because it's cold out, calls Coulson for a pick-up. Hopes he won't say anything about Lincoln's absence.

 

He doesn't. He just picks her up in one of the SUVs, and it's only belatedly, as they're driving home, that she realizes she could have called Mack instead. 

"You alright?" Coulson asks, and Daisy nods, tucks her hair behind her ears, gets an idea that won't, like, fix any of it, but maybe it'll make her feel a little better, at least.

"Hey," she says, "hey, Coulson, can we stop at a drugstore before we get back?"

"He didn't-" Coulson says, swallows, tightens his hands on the wheel, "he didn't  _hurt_ you, did he? We're not stopping for bandages or Advil or something?"

"No," Daisy says, "no, nothing like that, I just. I promise I won't be a minute." He pulls into the next drugstore parking lot and she glances at him, starts laughing a little. "I actually," she admits, "Coulson, I have no money, this jumpsuit doesn't exactly have space for a purse, can you loan me twenty bucks?" He smiles, suddenly looking a lot less tense, and pulls out his wallet, hands her a twenty. "Won't be a minute," she says again, and in fact she's more like ten, takes longer than she expects considering her options in the hair dye aisle.

She's briefly tempted by blonde, but she knows she'll never keep up with the regrowth. Contemplates cherry-red before settling on her final choice.  _Winter plum_ , the box says, and the color is a deep, rich burgundy that's closer to purple than red. It feels like a good decision.

"Find what you needed?" Coulson asks when she slides back into the passenger seat, closes the door, and she nods, holds the plastic bag in her lap for a moment before pulling out the box. He glances sideways, smiles wider. "Purple?"

"I wanted a change," she tells him, touches her hair a little self-consciously. "I didn't want to cut it, this time, but..."

"You wanted a change," he repeats, his tone questioning, and she nods, lets the unspoken reason hang between them. He drives in silence for a few minutes, taps his index fingers on the steering wheel as if he doesn't know he's doing it, and Daisy pulls her feet up onto the seat, hugs her knees, fiddles with the dial of the air-conditioning. Coulson clears his throat, gives her another quick sideways glance.

"I... I could help you with it. If you'd like."

"Really?" Daisy asks, strangely excited at the thought of Coulson helping her with something, just  _hanging out_ , no mission or goal except turning her hair an interesting color. "Do you even know how?"

"Hey," he says, "come on, who do you think did Natasha's? _Clint_?" She sees him grip the wheel a little tighter, his breath stutter, and then he adds, smooth, "Well. Back then, anyway. Until... I guess she's probably got someone else by now. Anyway, I was a field agent once, changing your hair's one of the first things they teach you about making a successful escape."

"Yeah," Daisy agrees. "Okay, yeah. It'll be fun."

 

When they get back to base Coulson looks again at the plastic bag in Daisy's hand, fidgets a little.

"We could... I mean, I've got an ensuite in my quarters. It's probably nicer than the base bathrooms?"

"Sure," Daisy says easily. "How come  _you_ get a private bathroom, huh?"

"I'm the Director of SHIELD," Coulson tells her as they walk down the hall to his room, "surely that gives me  _some_ perks."

"I run Secret Warriors now," Daisy counters, "shouldn't I be getting perks too, then?"

"We'll see," Coulson teases. "Next time we remodel." He throws his jacket down over a chair, opens the door to the bathroom. "So, you want to do this now?"

"Yeah," Daisy says, unzips her field suit and yanks it down, ties the arms around her waist. She's got a plain black singlet on underneath, and Coulson hands her a towel to keep the dye off her clothes, starts running the faucet for hot water.

"So," he says, considering the box instructions. "This stuff goes on over freshly shampooed damp hair, you alright with leaning back into the sink?"

"Yeah," she agrees again, watches him roll up his sleeves. They evaluate the bathroom together and Coulson hums under his breath like he's considering.

"The desk chair," he says, "drag it in here?" and once she does, settles herself in with her head tilted back over the sink, she's at the perfect angle for Coulson to pour warm water slowly over her head. "Is, uh, is the temperature okay?" he asks, and she nods, eyes closed, lets herself relax into it as Coulson begins to run his hands through her hair to make sure it's all saturated. The way he's touching her is gentle, careful, and she almost tears up at how  _nice_ it is, someone doing something for her with no ulterior motive except to make her feel happy and cared for.

She hears him step away for a moment, opens her eyes to see him reach for the shampoo in his shower and squeeze a bit into his palm, and then when he lathers it into her hair she lets her eyes flutter closed again, enjoys how Coulson presses his fingers into her scalp. It's good, it's  _really good_ , actually, and when he drags his thumbs from her hairline back, makes circles against her temples, massages up the base of her skull, she sighs in pleasure, melts into his hands.

"Good?" he asks quietly, and Daisy mutters something that's meant to be 'yes' but comes out slurred. Coulson laughs softly, repeats the drag of thumbs and fingertips from hairline to the nape of her neck and back up, traces his fingers along the delicate skin behind her jaw, and suddenly her relaxation is mingled with the kind of arousal that sets all her nerve endings going at once.

"Oh _god_ ," she breathes, or moans, and hears Coulson's breath stutter. Then he's filling the cup again, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, and she misses his touch but the warm water is so soothing, she hasn't been this relaxed in months.

"Okay," he says, squeezes the excess water out of her hair, "I think we're ready for purple," and then props her upright like it's no big deal, his hand tenderly cupping the back of her neck. She has to take a minute to breathe while he unboxes the dye, pulls on the rubber gloves, because all she wants to say is  _why are you being so nice to me_ , and she thinks she knows why. She takes another deep breath, rubs her hair with the towel so it's not dripping wet.

"Oh wow," she laughs when she sees the color of the dye, "that's sure something, huh," and Coulson pokes at the deep purple goop.

"Ready?" he asks, and she nods, watches them in the mirror as Coulson methodically applies the dye to her hair. He looks up, catches her gaze, smiles a little self-consciously. "Why purple?" he asks, and she chews her lip, blinks away a droplet of water sliding past the corner of her eye.

"When I was a kid," she says eventually, "we didn't really wear bright colors, not in St Agnes. Bright colors were 'ungodly', or maybe not modest, I can't remember. Maybe they were just expensive, and all the clothes we had were donated, old stuff nobody else wanted." She twists her mouth up, conscious that she doesn't talk about this much, but Coulson's quiet as he keeps working the dye into her hair. "One of my foster moms, one of the only good ones, she came home one day with this purple rain jacket she'd seen in the store. Said she thought I'd like it." She twists her hands in her lap, laughs softly. "Man, I wore that fucking jacket for  _years_ , until it was threadbare and way too small. So."

"Purple's your favorite color," Coulson says, as if he's learning something infinitely precious, and Daisy nods.

"Yeah," she agrees, swallows around the lump in her throat. "Yeah, purple's my favorite color."

 

The dye's going to take about half an hour to process, maybe a little longer, and when her hair's totally saturated with it Coulson piles it up on top of her head, peels the gloves off and throws them into the bin.

"I'm sure I look so great right now," Daisy laughs as she wraps the plastic shower cap over it to hold it all in. It crinkles whenever she moves, tickles her ears, and Coulson glances at her, holds in a smirk.

"It's a good look," he says, straight-faced. "We'll redesign your battle gear. Hey, you, uh, you want a drink while it sets?"

"Yeah," Daisy says. "Yeah, okay." He gestures for her to take the armchair in the corner of his quarters, pours them both a whisky, sits down on the end of his bed. Daisy sips, swallows slowly, can't resist looking around Coulson's quarters. She's never been in here before; they're neat, impersonal in a way she wouldn't have expected based on his office.

"All my collectibles are on display," Coulson tells her as if he's aware of what she's thinking. "I, um. I spend so much time in there, this is really just where I sleep, there didn't seem much point in decorating."

"Right," Daisy says, "right, that, uh, makes sense, I guess." She jiggles her leg, fidgets a little, remembers her other impulse purchase.

"Oh! I got us something to share." She hunts around for the plastic bag, finds the package of snack cakes. "Snacks are important when you're doing hair stuff."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Coulson says dryly, but he takes one of the Twinkies, breaks it open and licks out the filling. Daisy chokes a little on her whisky, looks away. 

"You do this a lot, huh," he asks after a minute, looks down at the glass in his hand and then up at her. "Change your hair, I mean. When, uh..."

"When bad stuff happens, you mean," Daisy says. "Yeah. You noticed that, huh?"

"Your fringe, after we moved here," Coulson agrees. "And then cutting it short, last year. Of course I noticed."

"You never said anything, when I cut it," Daisy says a little recklessly. "Didn't you like it?"

"What- no, Daisy, that- yes, I  _like_ it."

"But you liked my long hair better."

"No," Coulson says, shifts uncomfortably. Daisy thinks he might actually be  _blushing_. "No, I- I like it no matter how you cut it. Shorter, like this, it looks- you look powerful. Like a leader. But you're beautiful no matter what hairstyle you have." He whispers the last sentence as if he's shy about admitting it, and Daisy presses the rim of the glass to her lower lip, smiles as she takes a sip.

"Yeah?" she asks, and he nods.

"Yeah. But I think the purple is going to be the best yet."

 

She kind of loses track of time in the end, and it's more like an hour when she realizes she should probably wash out the dye. They get back in the bathroom, and in the brighter light, Coulson squints at her shoulder, wets his thumb, rubs at something on her collarbone.

"Oh, shit, did I get some on me?" she asks, twists to see it, and he nods, glances between her and the shower cubicle.

"Yeah, sorry, I didn't... hey, it might be easier to wash off if you just take a shower? I can, uh, I can go get you a change of clothes from your bunk, if you like."

"Okay," Daisy says, "yeah, okay, that's, that sounds like a good idea," and it does, it  _does_ , because she's very relaxed, a little buzzed from the alcohol and warm from the way Coulson is caring for her.

"Right," Coulson says, "well, there's a towel on the rail, I'll just, I'll leave you to it." He closes the door behind him, and Daisy starts the water running, shucks off her jumpsuit and singlet, peels the plastic cap off her head and stuffs it in the trashcan. It takes a while to rinse all the dye out, and she closes her eyes, stands under the hot water, lets it stream over her and wash everything away.

The soap in the shower smells like Coulson, fresh and a little pepperminty, and she can't help but smile as she lathers it over her shoulders, her breasts. Thinks, for a second, of Coulson in here too, doing this for her, and flushes hot at the idea.

When she's done, she looks around the bathroom, realizes Coulson doesn't have a hairdryer, towels her hair dry instead and combs it out, scrunches her fingers through it to make it curl damp around her face. It's going to dry fluffy, probably, but she doesn't really care. The mirror's steamed up, but even so she can see how it glows deep and rich, gleaming purple under the bathroom lights. Coulson was right. It's the best.

She tucks the towel around her, opens the bathroom door, and Coulson turns around, his hands full of her clothes. Her favorite soft sweater, a pair of her most worn-in jeans. She smiles, touches her hair, tilts her head.

"What do you think?"

Coulson just blinks, his mouth a little slack like he's stunned by her, and Daisy can't breathe, she can't  _breathe_ , because he's never looked at her like this before, or maybe he's looked at her like this every chance he gets.

"Coulson," she says, reckless again, steps closer. "What's it called when you've just broken up with someone, and you really desperately want to kiss someone else?"

"A rebound," he replies, automatic, and Daisy bites her lip.

"Yeah, but- what about when the person you broke up with, they were the rebound you started something with because the person you've wanted, they're out of reach, they've always been out of reach, except now they're looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen?"

"Oh," Coulson breathes, "then it's probably called a really great idea," and Daisy doesn't know whether he kisses her or she kisses him or whether they just crash together, kissing like they've been waiting for months, years, to do this. Coulson's dropped her clothes and has his hands on her shoulders like he can't believe he's allowed to, like her bare skin is precious, and Daisy breathes into it, drags him closer, presses herself up against him. His heart's hammering through his ribs and his cotton shirt and the damp towel she has wrapped around her, and Daisy wants so much, wants to get him undressed and push him down and feel his vibrations spike.

"You've got too many clothes on," she says by way of a hint, and Coulson laughs, lets her unbutton his shirt, slide it off his shoulders. The towel's come untucked and Daisy just lets it fall, hears Coulson gasp when she presses her naked breasts up against his chest.

"Your hair's still wet," he gets out, and Daisy bites at the side of his throat, fumbles with his belt buckle.

"Do you care?"

"No," Coulson agrees, "I really don't care at all."

 

She was right; her hair  _does_ dry fluffy, a halo of curls spread out on Coulson's pillow, and when she looks she sees that there are purple stains where her head's been resting.

"Whoops," she mutters guiltily, and Coulson follows her gaze, smiles lazily, traces his fingers down her side.

"I told you," he says, "I really don't care. It's good, though. I like it."

"You do?"

"Mmm," he says, touches a strand of her hair, winds it around his finger. "I do. It's a good change."

"What about this?" Daisy asks, touches his hipbone, lets herself trail her fingers down the hollow of it and over his lower belly. "Is this a good change, for us?" Coulson lets the lock of hair go, tangles his fingers deeper into the curls at the nape of her neck, pulls her in for a long, soft kiss.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, Daisy, it is, it's the best change," and the thing is, she believes him, because this is  _wonderful_.

"I should have asked you to help with my hair earlier," she murmurs against his lips, wraps her arms around him, and Coulson kisses her again, her mouth and her cheek and her forehead.

"I should have offered," he replies, and in the end, Daisy falls asleep with Coulson stroking her hair, gentle and careful and so infinitely tender her heart almost aches with the love of it.

**Author's Note:**

> so uh the first Skoulson fic I ever read was by RowboatCop feat: hair-washing, and it has obviously STUCK WITH ME in the best of ways <3 <3


End file.
